Y/N’s room was dark, the familiar scent of gunpowder and leather clinging to the sheets in a way that was all wrong. The blanket was heavier. The pillow was firmer.

Something was off.

Across the hall, a door creaked open. Footsteps. Heavy. Hesitant. Then a scream tore through the silence—sharp, unmistakably female, and absolutely panicked.

That voice. Y/N knew that voice.

It was hers.

The door swung open.

Standing in the frame was Y/N. But the way they held themselves—the swagger, the tension in their shoulders, the scowl twisting lips that were Y/N’s but somehow sharper, angrier—was pure Dean Winchester.